


Spring Awakening

by Miss_M



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, F/M, Feels, First Time, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Post-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rivers, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:30:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_M/pseuds/Miss_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spring comes again to Westeros, and Jaime discovers the Not-Maid of Tarth is a bigger tease than he suspected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Unashamedly hopeful, post-canon J/B smut with a big helping of bittersweet feels. Title stolen from Frank Wedekind (though he might not mind, given the nature of the material). Spoilers through ADWD, I own nothing but the spring tingles.

The best thing about the end of Winter, thinks Jaime as he sits naked by the Red Fork of the Trident, is its unexpectedness. 

There were signs, of course. The sun appearing for longer and longer stretches, slowly turning from a pale cheese glimpsed through clouds to a globe of gentle flame. The sound of water dripping off eaves, startling as a child’s first breath. The growing suspicion, when Jaime pulled off his mitten, that his remaining fingers might not turn blue and fall off after all. 

Still, nothing prepared him for the sunlight on his skin, the way a breeze might not carry snowflakes like tiny blades, the sight of leaves and grass. Nothing had prepared him for the possibility that he might live to see it, feel it all once again. 

He stretches his legs out in front of him, shifts his rump on the convenient tree stump polished by numerous backsides before his. The Trident is finally, amazingly, warm enough to bathe in, and the sun feels better than any cloth or hands which might have dried him. Even the tender skin on his stump feels good with the sun on it. He is sweating under the armpits, under his beard. Maybe he should shave. It might be safe to wear his own face again, now that one queen rules where many kings failed and Jaime has been officially pardoned. Not that the beard ever fooled anyone, but he got used to it, and it did help keep his face from freezing during the Long Night. 

Jaime faces the afternoon sun, eyes closed, and breathes in the Spring. It smells of dust ( _dust! he forgot what dust smells like amidst all that ice and snow and howling Northern wind_ ) and grass and horses and bees and sharp, spicy wildflowers and a cookfire. 

Brienne insisted on making camp before nightfall. Jaime told her the sun was not going to up and run away, but there never was any talking to the stubborn wench. Well, almost never…

Jaime smiles at some of his more recent memories, senses movement as she walks past him, probably off to fetch water for their supper. Senses her as though she were etched onto the insides of his eyelids, against the unseen sun.

When he opens his eyes, Brienne’s figure is wreathed in residual images of fiery wheels and yellow dancing shapes. She is walking away from him, toward the river, the easy gait of a soldier, a rider of horses and wielder of swords. The barely perceptible roll of her hips. 

It takes Jaime a few moments and two sharp blinks to realize that he has not gone sunblind: she _is_ naked, as naked as she was on her nameday, as naked as he is right now. 

He knows he looks a proper fool as he sits there with his mouth open, watching Brienne approach the river garbed in nothing but her skin and scars. His shy, demure wench, who overcame her blushes quickly enough after that first night a few days out of Winterfell ( _the end of Winter brought many surprises_ ), yet remains adamant on one or two points. Like turning away and covering herself hastily when she dresses in the morning and catches him watching. Like only lying with him by the light of a fire or the stars. 

He has never seen her fully naked in daylight before. He does not count Harrenhal, the baths were dim and full of steam, and he half delirious. 

His cock has ideas of its own, as usual, and it definitely counts Harrenhal. 

Jaime shifts on the tree stump again, watches Brienne approach a stand of reeds by the water’s edge, never looking back, as though unfeeling of his burning gaze, and remembers her as she was that day in the baths: young and proud and furious and still mostly unscarred. 

He should have listened to his cock then. Maybe the Winter would not have been as cold, as grim. Maybe the terror and pain and sheer bloody grind of the war and the Long Night would have been less bitter, had they been laced with the peculiar exhaustion he finds when he lies, held by her long arms and legs, wrapped in her like ripe fruit in its skin, spent, complete. 

That night at an inn just south of Winterfell, the fire in the grate burned down to cinders and water dripping off eaves cacophonously, Brienne was eager yet skittish as a foal, he just as eager yet feeling his years and too long with only his left hand for company. Afterward, he could see her walls going up as they lay side by side, could see her withdrawing into herself. Reached for her before she could lay the last brick in place and shut him out for good. There were just enough chinks left in her walls for him to reach through. Touch her, caress her hips and kiss her scars, suck her breasts and lick her cunt, until she let him in again. Then, it was something else entirely. Not quite Durran Godsgrief and fair Elenei’s wedding night, but Jaime was no hero of old, Brienne was neither fair nor a girl anymore, and together they had seen enough castles razed and people torn to pieces to last them ten lifetimes. Just a man and a woman, who had dragged each other through hells and Winter, coming together to fuck and embrace fondly after was fine and lovely, and far better than he had any right to hope for. 

Especially since he had remained an utter, thundering fool for _so long_ , allowed years of war and the longest Winter of the world to pass over them without once reaching out, when Brienne had been so close, so close always. 

He watches her now, swallows the bitterness of memories and regrets, the things not said and done sooner, almost not done at all. His cock twitches, oblivious, as Brienne negotiates the last, steep incline down to the water. Jaime remembers the soft, warm mud squelching between his toes as he climbed out, imagines Brienne’s feet sinking into it. Considers going to her before she can wade in, laying her down on the riverbank, right there in the mud, pebbles digging into her buttocks and his knees, sharp blades of grass cutting her palms while he thrusts into her and she props herself up to thrust back. Two river creatures rutting among the reeds. 

“Jaime,” she calls out, not turning her head to look at him. “If I slip and fall in, you will fish me out, won’t you? I have no wish to drown here in the Trident.” 

He huffs laughter, wraps his hand around his cock. Is she… Is the wench _teasing_ him? His serious, devoted Brienne, teasing him? Thinking of their previous time on the Red Fork, those first harsh words exchanged over poor, stupid Cleos Frey’s head, the first, small decisions which tied them together more firmly than any vows spoken in a sept? Is she thinking of Harrenhal, as he is? It would seem she remembers quite a lot from that day, more than she might admit. He strokes himself slowly as she wades in, only her head and broad shoulders visible above the tall reeds. 

It is all so new, still, and Jaime has yet to decide how to behave when they stop at an inn or a peasant’s hut to buy food, and he sees the looks he gets, the looks she gets. The incredulous stares of the men, the snickering of the women, the open gaping of the brats. Sometimes he feels like beating them all into the dust, other times like stringing together lewd jests to make them look away, look down, not burden Brienne with their eyes. 

Most often, though, he wants to tell them the truth. Not because they need or care to hear it, but because he needs to say it, _wants_ to say it. That none of them have any idea what her face looks like when her head rolls back as he pushes her over that sweet edge, the light from the fire’s last embers licking her scarred cheek, her magnificent eyes screwed shut, opening only to look at him, filmy and sated. No idea how she sounds when she gasps and moans and stutters his name breathlessly. How much better she tastes than a lord’s feast. How quickly she learned to bend and mold herself to him, as easy with his cock in her as she is with sword in hand. 

His cock protests when he lets it go, heaves himself off the tree stump, and goes after her. 

He parts the reeds, feet sinking into mud, and sees her. Her back to him, slow-moving water lapping above her knees, she scrubs her arms, the sun held captive in droplets on her skin. A creature made of light, but for the sound of her callused fingers on her skin. He had once thought her especially ugly when wet. 

Jaime knows she can hear him as he wades in behind her. She bends to scoop water over her stomach and thighs. 

Oh wench, he thinks, you _are_ teasing me. The thought sends a jolt of pleasure through him. How quickly she learns. 

He is two steps away and splashing loudly when she turns and catches his eye. Her own eyes that shade of blue which never ceases to astonish him. They slide down him, standing in front of her nearly hip-deep, take in his arousal, his shaking hand. 

“Why, _Ser_ Jaime,” she imitates his drawl, something suspiciously akin to a smirk hovering around her mouth, the tip of her tongue showing between horsey teeth, “have you not had your fill of bathing for one day?”

He considers telling her just who has not had their fill of what yet or dunking her to see how long it would take her to throw him off and dunk him in turn, snorting water and shaking with laughter. Instead he splashes up to her, trailing his fingers in the water, wraps his maimed arm around her waist, and slides his river-wet hand between her legs. 

She gasps, her spine straightening instantly under his stump. Didn’t expect that, did you, he thinks, intensely gratified to have surprised her, even more gratified to find her already plump and moist with want. She must have swelled for him while walking past, enjoying the feel of his eyes on her. 

“Oh wench,” he murmurs into her throat, feeling her swallow as his fingers move. “You have so much to learn still.”

She says nothing coherent, grabs his shoulders with her strong hands as he slides two fingers into her, beckons her closer. Dips his head and lips her nipples to make her gasp louder, then uses his teeth, the scratch of his beard, to make her arch into him, her arms going around his shoulders now, arching so they almost end up in the drink. 

Jaime draws it out on purpose, to teach her about teasing him, to pull all those sounds out of her that bring him close to the brink. He grinds against her hip a little to mollify his raging cock, focuses on her pleasure, knowing she will take care of him after. Provided they do not drown, with the way Brienne twitches and writhes, as though determined to wrestle him underwater. At least he is not in chains this time, he thinks wryly. 

He can almost feel the swell of her hip and buttock under his missing hand, the unexpected softness of skin under phantom fingers. Jaime licks and bites his way along her collarbone, over the scars where the bear raked her with its claw, up her neck, takes care to lick the pale scar left by the noose, to kiss her ruined cheek, the nick a wildling sword left on her muscular shoulder. To lick her parted lips quickly, himself teasing, to mark all of her skin, the scarred and the whole. He crooks his fingers and moves his thumb to make her flesh sing, feels Brienne try to lock her knees even as she begins to shake. The Warrior incarnate, ready to do battle as pleasure overcomes her. He holds her firmly with his right arm, imagines what they would look like if someone were to see them right now: a maimed man fingering a tall, scarred woman, hip-deep in the lazy waters of the Red Fork. His name on her lips, her voice carrying clear as a bell over the water. 

He focuses all his attention on his hand and her face. Her face. Brienne the Not-Maid of Tarth belongs to no man, but Jaime cannot deny what it does to him to know he is the only one. The only one who sees her like this, who makes her sound and look and feel like this. He thinks what a pity it is he will never get to write in the White Book again, so he can add as his crowning achievement that he survived the Long Winter and lived to become the Maid of Tarth’s lover. With copious details. She may not have opened her ( _pale, freckly, warm_ ) thighs for him until Winter loosened its grip on them all, but since then they have thawed and melted and played with each other in ways that would make lively reading for future members of the Queensguard. Jaime spares a smile for those exploits that will never be recorded. Brienne’s cries of pleasure give way to labored breathing. She slumps and leans all her weight on him, her sweaty forehead against his. Jaime nearly staggers under her weight, his heels sliding on the muddy bottom of the river, until he finds purchase and holds her up, breathing as one.

It does not take her long to recover, her eyes focusing on him, her tongue laving her lips as she watches his expectant expression. Duty is pleasure and pleasure is duty in Brienne. What he did to deserve her, Jaime has no idea and cannot be bothered to ponder when she kisses him, soft and deep and just a touch lustful. He never would have thought it would be such a thrill to have to tilt his head up to kiss her, to have her kiss him and wrap him in her strong arms, the Trident snaking around their hips like watery hands. 

She shifts, just a little, their bellies pressed together briefly, wet muscle and skin tantalizing against his cock, then she holds him against her hip and reaches for him with her right hand, her sword hand. Her large fingers and callused palms, like the rest of her, an unending surprise to Jaime. How she can be so much warrior and woman both, soft and rough all at once. 

Her left arm around his waist now, she pulls him closer to herself, to her clever, learning hand. His calf muscles stretch as she pulls him up on her hip, almost on tiptoe, the knowledge of how easily she could twist him into a knot igniting a ball of liquid fire in the pit of his stomach, and lower. Their lips and tongues spar lazily while her hand starts to move, teasing him a bit still. Jaime thinks, fleetingly, of Cersei, with her hurried lips, her wanting cunt, her hands which never had patience for such slow loving. He may not be able to stop these thoughts, so he banishes them, focuses on Brienne’s mouth, her hand, her breast and ribs under his fingers, her hip sharp against his stomach. His thigh brushes up between her legs, and he feels her starting to swell again, for him, only for him.

Brienne’s other hand has been caressing his hip and thigh, but now she slides the arm around his waist lower, cups his buttock briefly, then dips that hand lower still, behind and between his legs, to grasp, careful and warm. 

He tears his mouth from hers to groan out loud, held in her palms as between two bonfires, wanting more warmth yet certain he is safest not moving much. Her hands knead and stroke. She has him, he is hers completely when they are like this, he is invulnerable in her hands. He has a fleeting, hysterical thought that if they had been together already when the Bloody Mummers found them, those bastards never would have taken his hand. The blade would have glanced off his skin with the memory of Brienne’s touch still on it. 

She squeezes him gently, strokes him harder. “ _Gods_ , wench,” he hisses through his teeth, his eyes screwed shut, his whole body bent in an arch, reveling in her tender boldness, in how she knows him. 

She nuzzles his jaw, kisses his throat, just below his beard. “What do you say?” she whispers, her voice shivery with her own arousal, the remnant of her pleasure, the knowledge of her power. 

“Brienne,” he manages, his throat as stretched as his calves, as his whole body on her hip, in her hands. “ _Brienne._ ” She hums into his throat, and squeezes, and fondles, and strokes. 

It seizes him then, like a fist around his spine. He thrusts into her hand and roars at the blue sky, his fingers gripping her breast, still slick with her. She holds him up, holds him safe, does not stop caressing him until he is leaning on her shoulder, his voice echoing over the Riverlands. They can hear him as far as the blackened ruins of Harrenhal and Riverrun, he is certain. The last thing left of a lion’s old life, his roar. Once he has shaved, he will have shed that skin completely, leaving only the skin she touches and kneads, the flesh that rises and molds itself to her every night and, it would seem, during the day as well. 

Jaime smiles into Brienne’s shoulder, kisses the scar there. She rubs her mangled cheek on his hair, slides her fingers down his thigh to dip them into the Red Fork. Sunlight and soft air like a held breath on their skin.

They stand there, in the river, lovers holding each other, battle-scarred comrades propping each other up. Spring and the absence of war unfolding around them.


End file.
